Calder Storm (25 page)

“I don't think that's a fair conclusion to draw, Aunt Cat.” Calm and a little cool, Trey crossed to his chair and sat down. “When you reminisce, it's usually about the good times. Sloan had no family, no home, no roots. That doesn't exactly make for pleasant memories.”

“I think we have discussed this topic enough for one evening,” Chase stated. “Let's eat before the food gets any colder than it already is.”

But Laredo wasn't ready to let go of the subject. “What do you think we should do about this?”

Calmly, Chase lifted a slice of roast beef onto his plate before deferring the question to his daughter-in-law. “What's your answer to that, Jessy?”

“We do nothing.” Showing the same calm, Jessy reached for the meat platter's serving fork. “Sloan is family. Until she proves otherwise, that's the way she will be treated.”

“We only have her word about this,” Laredo reminded her.

“And the word of a family member is accepted.”

Nothing was as simple as that, and Trey knew it. Their level of trust in Sloan had been changed, and only time would correct that. But he wasn't sure how Sloan would handle it, and there was little he could do other than stand beside her. The rest was up to Sloan.

Better than anyone, Trey knew how sensitive and proud Sloan was. He couldn't help being concerned that she wouldn't tolerate the situation very well.

A
steady fall of snowflakes drifted past the windowpane, creating an ever changing pattern of white dots against the gray-black night. Staring out the window, Sloan saw none of this. All trace of her earlier tears had been scrubbed from her face, but resentment continued to simmer, as evidenced by the tightly folded arms across her front and the dig of fingers into her sweater sleeves.

Never had she been more innocent, yet made to feel guilty—and for no reason other than that Max Rutledge had once been her guardian. The entire Calder family seemed obsessed by him. She was convinced their suspicions were totally ludicrous.

But every time Sloan replayed the conversation at the table—not a conversation, she corrected herself, an interrogation—the mental tape always stopped on the question from Laredo for which she had no adequate answer. There was only one person who could supply it.

Coming to a decision, she turned briskly from the window and walked to the black telephone on the sofa's end table. She picked up the receiver and punched the area code and phone number from memory.

Her call was answered after the third ring. “Slash R Ranch.”

“Is that you, Bennett?” she guessed, but never gave him a chance to confirm it. “This is Sloan. I need to talk to Uncle Max if he's there. It's important.”

“One moment,” was the reply.

And she was put on hold. As the seconds continued to tick away, Sloan sat on the arm of the sofa and impatiently tapped a hand on her leg.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the familiar voice of Max Rutledge came over the line. “Yes, Sloan. Bennett said you needed to talk to me. What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything—”

“What is it? Has something happened to the baby?”

The concern in his voice was like balm to her raw nerves. Sloan took a long, steadying breath and said, “No. The baby and I are fine. Did I tell you it's going to be a boy?”

“A son. That's wonderful. But I take it that isn't the reason you called.”

“No, it isn't.” The tension came back, along with the confusion. “Why didn't you tell me that you knew the Calders? Why did you let me think you'd never had any dealings with them?”

“So they have learned of your connection to me, have they?” he said with a degree of resignation. “I suppose it was bound to come out sometime. And it's my fault for not providing you with the details of that unfortunate business with Boone. But you sounded so happy and so very much in love when you told me of your engagement to Trey that it seemed unkind to bring up that unpleasantness.”

“I wish you had,” Sloan declared with feeling. “Now they think I deliberately kept it from them.”

“Is that what they said?” Surprise and anger crept into his voice.

“Not in so many words, but they implied it.”

“Why? What reason would they have?”

“It's a long story. But you have to understand that the Calders are convinced that whatever Boone did, it was on orders from you.”

“What?!” Max exploded, outraged and indignant.

Sharing the same view, Sloan released a disgusted sigh. “I know. It's ridiculous, and I told them so. Even worse, though, they actually think it's possible you want to get back at them for Boone's death.”

“You can't be serious?”

“I am. Trey told me himself. At the time, I didn't really believe him. Then tonight at the dinner table, the way the family grilled me about you—”

“You?! Why? What has any of this to do with you? Wait. Let me guess. They're probably wondering whether your marriage to Trey is part of some conspiracy of mine.”

The instant he said it, Sloan felt a little chill as she remembered the mocking way Laredo had asked if Rutledge had congratulated her upon hearing the news of her engagement. It was exactly what they suspected.

A short, derisive laugh came over the phone line. “Obviously the Calders don't know you very well, Sloan, or they would realize you would never consent to such a thing.”

“Trey knows better.” She clung to that.

“I'm relieved to hear it. For a moment I thought they were all against you, and I was about to order my plane to come get you.”

“That isn't necessary,” Sloan assured him. “I'm upset, and I've probably made it sound worse than it is. The Calders couldn't understand why you never told me about the trouble Boone had caused. And I couldn't give them a reason. That's why I called.”

“I'm glad you did. And if they start giving you a rough time, don't you dare sit there and take it. Call me, and I'll have you out of there in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks, Uncle Max.”

The line of her mouth softened into a near smile when she hung up the phone. It took her a moment to realize that all of the Calders' suspicions about Max had planted a few seeds of doubt in her own mind about him. Yet his reaction when she told him about it had echoed her own. It served to solidify her convictions concerning his lack of culpability.

 

Snowflakes danced in front of the bright lights that focused their beams on the building sign for The Oasis. In this part of Montana, pickups, equipped with four-wheel drive, were as common as flies in summer. And on a Saturday night, snow was no deterrent for the bar's customers. If anything, it provided them with an excuse to stay longer and party harder.

Amidst the blare of music from the jukebox, the melodic ding of the slot machines, and the crowd's nonstop chatter, punctuated by hearty guffaws and giggling laughter, the bang of the cash-register drawers closing on sale after sale could nevertheless be heard, bringing a smile to Donovan's face. A handy profit was something he hadn't expected when he first opened the doors to The Oasis. But here it was, and, by agreement, it all went into his pocket.

Of course, Donovan didn't kid himself. It wasn't the booze or the two-inch-thick T-bones that pulled in this size of a crowd; it was the girls and the gambling.

Turning from the cash register, Donovan made an automatic survey of the bar, on the lookout for trouble. It was a rare Saturday night that didn't have at least one fight. The red light glowing above the door to his private office caught his eye.

“It's all yours, Sammy,” he told the bartender and stepped out from behind the long counter.

Shouldering his way through the throng of half-drunk cowboys, he reached the door marked
PRIVATE
, slipped the key into the lock, and gave it a turn. The telephone with the private line was ringing when he walked in. The red light was something Donovan had rigged up to it so he wouldn't miss a call from Rutledge.

He took the extra seconds to close and lock the door behind him, then picked up the phone. “Donovan here.”

“It took you long enough,” Max growled.

“Saturday nights are busy.”

“Good. I hope it's very busy. I want you to start putting a bug in as many ears as you can that Trey Calder and his young wife are having marital problems.”

“They are?” Donovan frowned in surprise. Everything he had heard about them indicated just the opposite.

“Not yet. But this is the time to start some. I have a few ideas on how to go about it.”

“Fire away.”

 

The old-fashioned bed tray held a full glass of milk, a covered plate of food, and silverware wrapped in a linen napkin. It was the drink Trey watched as he slowly climbed the stairs, pausing whenever the milk sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass.

At the top of the steps, he turned and headed for the master bedroom. Finding the door closed, he braced one end of the tray against his stomach, freeing a hand to turn the knob. He gave the door a shove, caught hold of the tray with both hands again and walked in.

Sloan was by the fireplace, jabbing at the glowing coals with a poker. She turned when he entered, and Trey ran a quick but discreet glance over her in an attempt to assess her current mood. To his relief, her eyes no longer had that wounded and angry snap to them. She looked almost calm.

“I brought you some dinner,” he announced. “I thought you might be getting hungry.”

“Starving.” She returned the poker to its stand and looked at him with a hint of chagrin. “I thought I was going to have to swallow my pride and slip downstairs to raid the refrigerator.”

Hearing that, Trey was sorry he'd brought the tray. As far as he was concerned, the sooner Sloan was obliged to mingle with the family again, the better off they would all be. But it didn't seem wise to say that.

Instead he asked, “Should I set this on the coffee table or the ottoman?”

“The coffee table.”

He waited until she sat down on the sofa, then placed the tray in front of her. “Feeling better, are you?” he observed.

“A little.” The easy way Sloan answered offered its own reassurance. “A part of me still resents how suspicious your family behaved tonight—and for no good reason.”

Trey could have argued that point, but the fire was out and he didn't want to fan it back to life. “Considering all the trouble in the past, it's only natural for them to be leery, especially when the memory is so fresh.”

“Uncle Max had no part of that,” she stated firmly as she removed the plate cover. “He told me so himself.”

“What do you mean?” Trey frowned in sudden wariness.

“I talked to him,” Sloan replied in unconcern.

“When? Tonight?” He stared at her in disbelief.

“Yes.” The minute she looked up, all the ease left her expression, and she tilted her head in defiance. “Why? Is something wrong with that? Don't tell me I'm not supposed to talk to him anymore?”

“I never said that,” Trey protested.

“You didn't have to,” Sloan retorted. “You looked at me like I just committed a cardinal sin.”

“I was surprised,” he said in his own defense. “It never occurred to me that you would call him.”

“Well, I did. Did you think your family were the only ones who were curious why he never mentioned that there had been contact between his family and yours?”

“And what was his”—Trey started to say “excuse” but quickly changed it—“answer?”

“He explained that I sounded so happy when I told him I was engaged to you, he had been reluctant to mention the things Boone had done.” Sloan paused, suddenly turning earnest. “I don't think you understand, Trey. He's such a proud man. He has to be ashamed of what his son did. I know that's why he must find it so painful to talk about.”

The sympathy in her voice touched a nerve. As far as Trey was concerned, there was no man less deserving of it than one who shifted all the blame onto his dead son just to keep his own name clean.

“Are you sure we're talking about the same Max Rutledge?” he challenged tightly. “The one I met would only be ashamed that his son got caught.”

“How dare you say that!” Sloan erupted in anger. “You don't know him at all!”

“And you do? I thought you said you were never that close. Yet here you are, claiming to understand how he feels. Which is the truth, Sloan?”

“I have known that man all my life.” Every word was carefully and firmly enunciated, a tight anger trembling in her voice. “How many times have you met him? Once? Twice?”

Working to haul in his temper, Trey looked at her for a long second. “One of the first things I was taught as a boy was how to recognize a rattlesnake. It doesn't matter whether it's coiled and ready to strike or just slithering through the grass, it still has fangs and venom. Only a fool is blind to that.”

“Uncle Max is a rattlesnake now, is he?” Sarcasm was thick in her voice.

A muscle leaped convulsively along his clenched jaw. “I think we'd better agree to disagree where Max Rutledge is concerned and just drop the subject.”

“Fine,” she snapped and jerked the napkin across her lap.

The solution was far from a satisfactory one, and Trey knew it. At the same time he couldn't pretend that Rutledge was innocent of any wrongdoing, not even to please Sloan. And she refused to concede the possibility of his guilt. Which left no area for compromise.

Swept by a sudden raw energy, Trey pivoted away from her and muttered, “I'll throw another log on the fire.”

Before he could take the first step toward the wood box, the phone rang. Trey swung around to answer it. When he saw the way Sloan's glance ricocheted from the phone to him, suspicion reared its head.

“Was Uncle Max going to call you back, or should I answer it?” he challenged smoothly.

“You can answer it. I'm eating.” She dipped a fork into the vegetable medley on her plate, all cool and stiff. “But if it is Uncle Max, I'll talk to him.”

One rigid stride carried him to the telephone. He snatched the receiver from its cradle and carried it to his ear. “This is Trey,” he said curtly.